


Becoming Jane

by SinDjinn



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Empath, Established Reader, F/M, Magical Fuckery, Reader Is Not Chara, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader has a libido and drive, Reader is asexual, Reader-Insert, Tags added as written, reader is female
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-22 15:29:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11383026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinDjinn/pseuds/SinDjinn
Summary: They call you Jane. Not because that's your name, but because you don't have one and they had to call you something on the government paperwork. It's been six years since they found you, and despite your unknown background, you've made a life for yourself--you're a senior at Arcania University with a job lined up after you get your degree, a great bartender in the meantime, and your family is one of choice instead of blood. You're going to get a degree in accounting, a good paying and /stable/ job, and you're going to put your weird past behind you.Or that's what you think, anyway, before an entire civilization of magic wielding monsters emerges from the nearby mountains.





	1. Prologue [3 minutes after the Event]

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome! Thank you for giving Jane a try. A few quick notes before we start.
> 
> Becoming Jane is a fic I attempted a few months ago, then decided almost immediately to dump, rethink, rewrite, and try again. I've struggled to write it, which is why I feel that I have to post it--because otherwise I'm going to keep deleting and rewriting forever, and I want to actually make this happen. I welcome criticism and advice.
> 
> This is my first fanfiction, and because they make me happy, it is a reader/sans or OC/sans fic, depending on how you look at it. It's written from second person, but the reader is a sort of established character in the sense that I don't enjoy fics that use placeholders for names, colors, appearances, etc. Reader is female. Reader is also asexual, but with a libido and general drive. It's likely there will be explicit smut at some point in this fic, and I'll make sure to make a note and separate those chapters for people who might want to read but aren't interested in that sort of thing.
> 
> There is no established release schedule, because I write as I have time and the mood strikes me. I still welcome feedback, comments, questions, etc, if you happen to have any. My writing tumblr is http://sindjinnblogs.tumblr.com/
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Monsters are hard to read. Not just for you, but in a general sense for most humans. When you’re used to learning emotions on a human face, learning to assign those same emotions and cues to a face with fur or gills or a snout or, in this case, no visible flesh at all is difficult. In fact, if you were anyone else, in any other situation, you doubt you would have been able to read the complex myriad of emotions flashing across his face.

 

(face, not skull, because it’s not hard bone, not really. It’s firm but soft, mallable, and warm under your fingertips when you--).

 

But because you are you, and because this is Sans, you don’t struggle to read the flash of loathing towards you and towards himself, or the agony in the glint of his eyes. You don’t struggle to read the fear or the rage. Worst of all, you don’t struggle to read the confused, hurt affection under all of it, the betrayal tinted love that makes everything just that much harder.

 

(because he doesn’t hate you, but he should)

 

Guilt swirls like a living thing in your chest, wraps tightly between your ribs, squeezes until it’s hard to breathe. Your lips part, dry, and you lick them and take a breath to speak but can’t make a sound.

 

Behind you, Asgore moves. Behind him, they watch you with confused, horrified eyes.

 

(except for the one who can’t)

 

**Betrayal tastes like bitter spice** , part of you notes in that detached, narrative way you’ve come to learn to loathe. It tastes the way you felt when you tried that stupid cinnamon challenge as a teenager--like dry, choking dust and a taste you used to love turned to pain.

 

            Asgore is lifting the trident. Sans is watching. Papyrus is--

 

            The three prongs are sharp and undoubtedly clean but you almost imagine you can see the dark crust of dried blood in the groves. If the shame and regret wafting from Asgore are anything to go by, you think he can see it, too. You think you hear the door creak open as they start to descend but you close your eyes tight and fight the part of you that screams at you to **run away**

 

(the part of you, like you don’t know what that part is, like it isn’t the entire reason for _everything_ )

 

            In what is surely your last moment, you keep your eyes tight and you think of everything that has led you to this end.


	2. Chapter One - Grillby [7 months, 2 weeks before the Event]

             The summer before your senior year at Arcania University, you get an internship. This is exceptionally exciting news, largely because it involves several thousands of dollars and a housing stipend. It’s also supposed to be a good resume builder and all, with a job offer at the end if you do well--but the money is super nice.

 

             On the dark side, you spend that summer in a tiny box called an apartment without an internet connection, because setting one up costs nearly as much as a month and a half of the actual connection and it’s not like you’re actually in the box very often. You spend a lot of time in the office, working on a huge restructuring and scanning project and trying to make a good impression and net that job offer.

 

             The end result of your summer is this: a remaining seven thousand dollars or so in the bank, a tentative job offer that instantly melts the stress off your shoulders, and a few months’ worth of news, Netflix, and life to catch up on. You’re expecting this to largely consist of watching the really popular new horror movie you keep hearing about (or is it a monster’s inc sequel?), catching the new season of Orange is the New Black that was already half spoiled by one of the more annoying coworkers in the break room, and calling a few friends to make lunch and coffee dates back on campus during move-in-week.

 

* * *

 

             It’s not like you actually make it back to campus and civilization outside of the office without finding out about monsters (which, spoiler alert, was not a new movie). It takes about half a minute after you’re back online, checking your email and Facebook, to discover the news--and another hour or so of searching the internet until you’re convinced that it isn’t some global prank. Still, a week is far from enough time to adjust to the massive shake in your world view, let alone prepare you for actually meeting one. It wasn’t like most people were even going to meet one, not for a while--their entrance point to the above ground world was in a small town near some mountains in the middle of nowhere, PA, and the monsters had gone on record as being dedicated, for now, to developing their own community.

 

            It was just your luck, then, that the middle of nowhere town they emerged near just happened to be built around the campus of a tiny, prestigious private university named Arcania.

 

            It’s also just your luck that you make it about half a day back on campus before you meet your first monster--and immediately try to kill him.

 

* * *

It happens like this:

 

            You’re running late for a mandatory staff wide meeting after your nap alarm failed to go off. It’s a little after 4pm the day before classes and it’s a hot, humid afternoon that makes your hair slick with sweat after running to the bar you work at from your dorm. The Nest is already bustling despite being a few hours before the usual rush--typical, for that last summer day, because everyone wants to meet up with all the friends they haven’t seen since the last semester, and The Nest is a pretty popular bar near campus. Still, most of the bustle comes from the crowd of employees around the back from the bar, down the little hallway where you usually lay out the finger food spreads during Senior Nights and such.

 

            Walking in the main entrance, you see a few groups sitting at tables nursing drinks. A few are chowing down into early dinners or appetizers--lots of burgers and greasy fried bar foods. You notice a distinctly savory smell on the air that you don’t recognize--something thick and meaty that makes your mouth water--and wonder if James, the head cook, is trying out a new menu item.

 

            The air is thick with the not-smells of berry excitement, caramel joy, and an undertone of sharp, bitter-sour dread. You pick up on a faint hint of chocolate love, flavored cinnamon with lust, and turn your attention away from a side booth where two underclassmen sit half in each other’s laps. You’re mostly just thankful that they’re still fully dressed--there have been a few nights where that wasn’t always true.

 

            You’re turning towards the narrow walkway to the backroom, where you can hear Madeline's droning voice going over what you can only imagine are the usual rules, when it happens. The kitchen door swings open, releasing a burst of that savory not-smell. There’s a flicker of light out of the corner of your eye, approaching the bar. You’re at the opposite side of the bar, near the bright red fire extinguisher on the wall. If you’d been a little further away, you think later, you might have had more time to think--but in that moment, as you turn and see flickering flames glinting off of the bottles in the well, you don’t have that time to think.

 

            You vault the bar top in seconds, landing poorly on your left ankle, but don’t let the sudden aching pain prevent you from straightening, grabbing the extinguisher, pulling the pin, and squeezing. What happens next is very fast, almost too fast for you to comprehend, so that someone has to explain it to you, after.

 

            You get a few seconds of foam out, about half of which actually hits the fire in your panic. A second bartender, one of the few on duty during the meeting, lunges at you to stop you. There’s a roaring like flickering flames, a cracking like a log in a fire place as the fire dims, and a flash of something bright and blue that pulls the fire extinguisher away from you before Cindy, the bartender, crashes into you seconds later.

 

            In the end, you never make it to the meeting, because you’re too busy profusely apologizing.

 

             Grillby, you learn, is a monster. Your first, in fact, but that doesn’t mean much because you meet your second, third, fourth, and fifth all at once immediately following. He’s a monster known as an elemental--in his case, a fire monster. You’d laugh at the pun that is his name, but you’re too busy begging for forgiveness after the situation is explained to you, and you get a good look at the monster man’s arms, which had caught the brunt of the blast. They’re dim, dark, like stone where the foam hit him. Like...like scabs or blisters would be on human skin, you think. They’re clearly painful, from the way he moves, and there’s a small patch on his cheek too. You apologize for a twelfth time.

 

             “kid, you can stop apologizing,” a deep voice says from your right, from a short figure in a blue hoodie. It’s another monster with a skull peering at you from inside the raised hood. You vaguely recall screaming upon noticing him during the commotion. “grillby knows you didn’t actually mean to hurt him. he’d be a lot more messed up, if you had.”

 

             You peer between the skeleton and the flaming monster, clenching the hem of your pale blue Nest shirt between your hands anxiously. “I-I didn’t! I just...it’s a bar and…I’m so sorry!”

 

             You wring the shirt hem some more looking down. An uncomfortably warm hand presses against your hair, ruffling it lightly. It’s not painful, but when you glance back up and see flicking flames in the shape of a hand pulling back, trailing a few loose stands of your snow white hair, you still expect to see those strands burst into flame themselves. Grillby peers at you, making a faint crackling noise, and you realize there is a small smile shape in the flames that make up his face.

 

             One of the others, another skeletal monster that is much taller than both of you and even a few inches taller than Grillby, makes a sudden ‘AHA’ noise and pulls a small wrapped candy from the bag hanging from their shoulder. They hand it to Grillby.

 

             “THIS WILL HELP! IT’S BOOBERRY FLAVORED!” The skeleton cries out. You’re not sure how to refer to this one--you feel, instinctively, that the monster is male, but there isn’t really anything that actually gives that impression. They’re wearing a sleeveless black crop top over a bright orange pleated skirt, the front of the shirt emblazoned with a hot topic-esque skull and roses. Their legs and the space where their abdomen would be are covered by a tight black fabric, some sort of body suit or spandex that wraps tightly around their spine and leg bones. The bag, a black leather purse covered in colorful skull motifs that reminds you a bit of high school scene girls, completes the look. You wonder almost idly if it’s sexist that you’re not sure what to call them.

 

             As you’re contemplating the other monster, Grillby accepts the candy, unwraps it, and pops it into his mouth--the split in the flames that had looked like a mouth parting into pale blue. The candy vanishes when the slit closes, not visible in the flames anymore. The light gets brighter and you watch in amazement as the dark patches seem to melt away into bright, cheerful flickering flames again. Only the worst of them remain, and they’re a lot lighter and less noticeable.

 

             “they’ll heal too, don’t worry,” the short skeleton says, as if reading your concern. You glance at him in stark amazement. You want to ask what the candy was, if it was some kind of medicine, but footsteps to your left make you glance over, where you notice your frazzled looking boss turn the corner from where she’d been handling the meeting.

 

             Madeline is a tall, bulky woman in her mid-forties. She’s taller than most men, at something above six feet, and more muscular besides from her life as a bodybuilder before she opened the bar. You’ve traded stories before, on some of your shifts. Standing near her, at a mere 4’10”, you feel tiny and more than a little intimidated--especially when she looks at you with such a stern, stressed expression, as she does now. The expression is only slightly softened by the bright, bubblegum pink of her short cropped hair.

 

             “So, I hear you attacked our newest bartender,” She says, raising a thin shaped eyebrow at you. Her gaze flickers behind you, to the monster group--Grillby, the two skeletons, a short lizard monster around your height, and a tall blue reptilian woman will gills. You’re think one of them must give her some kind of sign, because her expression is softer when she looks back down at you, where you’ve resumed wringing the hem of your shirt in a wave of anxiety. Are you about to lose your job?

 

             You whimper out a final nervous apology. She shakes her head with a sigh.

 

             “I know you wouldn’t have done it intentionally. If Grillby isn’t mad, let just put it behind us, okay?” She says, rubbing the back of her neck. “Either way, you missed the meeting, so you missed the explanation. Let me fill you in.”

 

             She walks around you to stand next to Grillby. “This is Grillby, as you’ve hopefully figured out. He’s from the Underground. I’d let him introduce himself and all, but I’ve been told he doesn’t speak the same way we do.”

 

             Grillby, beside her, nods his head.

 

             “He’s the owner of a bar himself underground, and he’s working on figuring out the permits and all to start his own chain topside. Until the government gets their head out of their asses and figures all of that out, he’s going to be working with us at The Nest. Monsters have their own sorts of drinks, so we’re going to be sharing recipes--he’ll learn ours, and teach me some of his.” Her expression brightens. “We’re going to be trying two of his cocktails this week on the menu, actually. They’re absolutely delicious, but they have some interesting side effects--I handed out some pamphlets in the meeting, I’ll get you a copy.”

 

             The monster group stands on the opposite side of the bar, watching this exchange quietly. You imagine they must be friends of Grillby--here to support him, maybe?

 

             Madeline glances behind her, back towards the side room. “Actually, why don’t you head back with me? I left everyone filling out their shifts on the schedule, and you need to sign up anyway. Your punishment for being late can be having to pick up whatever shifts are left, instead of picking. Grillby, let me know if you or your friends have any other problems. A new bartender should be taking over for Melissa in ten minutes or so, and I’ll introduce you.”

 

             She waves for you to follow, and you glance back at the monsters.

 

             “I’m glad you’re okay,” You say, sheepishly. “And I am sorry about the...the fire thing. I’ll try to make a better second impression!”

 

             You rush after her, never actually getting introductions to the small crowd of monsters. By the time you’re done talking work with your boss, and figuring out your first month’s shifts, they’ve already cleared out. Grillby flashes you a friendly wave on your way out from where he’s working with one of the other bartenders to put together a large tray of drinks.

 

             All things considered, you think, your first interaction with monsters wasn’t...well. It wasn’t good, exactly, but it certainly could have been worse. With curious regret about not having introduced yourself to the other monsters simmering in your gut, you make the long walk back to your dorm on an ankle that still twinges from your slip at the bar. You’ll probably have a few other opportunities to meet a monster or two, you figure, given how close you are to where they emerged and all.


	3. Chapter Two - Sansational Science[7 months, 1 week, 6 days before the Event]

On the morning before your first classes of the semester, you wake in a dark dorm room not to an alarm but to your own gasping cry. You’re sitting up in the thin, high dorm bed, hunched over with your hands fisted in your pale blue bedspread, before you can comprehend that you’re even awake. It’s early still, so early that the only light spilling onto your wall is from the single pale street light in the tiny courtyard through your blinds. The light casts deep shadows around your room, and it’s so quiet that your ragged breathing seems loud as screaming.

 

Something in your gut churns, acidic and dark, and as your pale eyes dart around the room in confused panic, you focus on that churning and the chilly fear crawling over the back of your neck and making your stuffy dorm room feel chilly. But as you come to full wakefulness, and nothing jumps from the shadows of your room, you slowly relax. You try to remember what your dream had been about, that it had affected you so suddenly.

 

There had been...there had been snow. You remember the painful chill of it. There had been snow, and something cinnamon sweet. And besides that there had been-- There had been-- what? 

 

The dream slips from your seeking thoughts, fading back into your subconscious despite your frustrated mental searching. You peer down at the blue of your bedspread, a pale blue turned grey in the darkness, and something about it fills you with a revulsion you can’t explain. 

 

Beside you, an old clock gleams the time in red--just after 5am. It’s an hour before you have to be up for classes, even given a generous amount of time to stop at the mess hall. You don’t think you can fall back asleep. You rub your eyes, sigh, and swing your legs from the covers.

* * *

 

Exhaustion, appropriately, has a taste like too dark cheap coffee with a splash of milk that’s just slightly gone off. It’s a sort of blend of self loathing and dread, bitter negativity with a sour note. Your wrinkle your nose as you cross the campus courtyard several hours later, the sun low in the cloudy orange sky. Not that it’s your nose that you’re smelling the emotions with, or your mouth that you’re tasting them with. Your therapist is pretty sure it’s psychosomatic, maybe a mild form of synesthesia. You’ve experienced it since as far back as you can remember, so it doesn’t bother you much, anymore. 

 

Your first class of the day and semester is a basic chemistry course. You’re not looking forward to it as you make the trek to the science building at the top of the hill. You were supposed to have taken the 10am with a friend of yours who’d promised to tutor you, which hadn’t seemed that bad when you’d been signing up. You’d gotten an email over the summer announcing that you’d been moved to a different section. You hadn’t seen it until the past week, so lucky you, there wasn’t enough time to change it and Miles, your science inclined friend, hadn’t been moved with you.

 

 

You grumble to yourself, muttering unpleasant things about the chemistry department and ridiculous major requirements. The only upside to the morning, you think sourly, is that you’d gotten to the breakfast hall so early that you’d managed to snack a fresh plate of your favorite breakfast foods before they’d been picked over. You think you would have rather had the extra sleep.

 

The class takes place in the basement of Ulmas Hall, you discover after following signs around the unfamiliar science building. The room it’s in is rather large, and well lit with bright lights lining the ceiling and small windows dotting the very top of the far wall. The sunlight is only slightly blocked by the growth of plant life just outside the ground windows. There’s a large white board, one of the fancy electronic ones, on the front wall behind a large desk, and a scattered dozen heavy black tables organized in a grid pattern throughout the rest of the room, each with two chairs on the side facing the front. The desks are cold to the touch, and you’re not sure if they’re some kind of metal or plastic or maybe ceramic, but they’re definitely not made of wood. The walls are relatively uncovered, except for a large periodic table on the back wall and a bulletin board just by the entrance, covered in posters for various school events and notices. 

 

In the back of the room, there’s a door leading to the adjacent lab--you peek through the small window to see an eyewashing station, desks with tiny little burners built into them, and some kind of enclosed glass or plastic protective station. You vaguely recall using that sort of clear enclosure in a high school class, where your middle aged teacher had dropped a bit of a shiny silver substance into water and watched it fizz and explode. 

 

As you peer through the little window, you can hear the bustle of your fellow students entering the classroom and claiming seats. You turn away from the window and take a seat yourself, on the side by the windows where you can peer out and see a sliver of sky between the trees growing near the building. At the front of the room, a thin black woman who looks to be in her forties is setting a briefcase on the desk and turning to boot up the smartboard. A projector hanging from the ceiling begins to whirl to life. 

 

You pull out a notebook, a pen, and the excessively expensive, bulky textbook the syllabus had demanded. You set them on the edge of your desk and pull your phone out instead, ignoring the rest of the class while everyone settles in. You try to open the browser, click to an updated chapter of one of the web serials you follow, and grimace as the loading bar freezes, unresponsive. The basement must block too much of your data signal, you think. You frown darkly and promise yourself you’ll just download a book or two onto the phone when you have service again.

 

Someone takes the seat next to you and slumps over onto the desk. You glance over and see that they have their head in their arms, face down on the desk, a fur lined blue hood falling over their face and bunched fabric covering their arms. It’s a pretty generic hoodie, so generic that it looks familiar. You want to be surprised that someone is wearing such a heavy hoody, given that it’s above ninety degrees outside, but the basement is admittedly kind of chilly and you’re already starting to regret your own shorts and tee shirt. 

 

You make a mental note to bring a sweatshirt to future classes in the building.

 

Your professor introduces herself as Professor Mahoney and begins the course with the usual boilerplate syllabus garbage that you, as a senior, are well used to. At some point, you can’t be sure as to when since you stop paying attention somewhere around when she’s discussing office hours, the student at your right finally lifts their head to pay attention and look around--and you start as you glance over into a familiar glowing orb in an empty eye socket. 

 

It takes you a moment to realize that you aren’t the only one who reacts, Professor Mahoney having paused apparently mid sentence. The older woman gapes at the monster for a long moment, blinking wide, startled eyes. It seems that this captures the attention of quite a few people in the room, who follow her gaze. It’s uncomfortably quiet.

 

The skeleton monster in question takes this in stoically, before tilting his head at the professor. “you okay, professor? why so grim?” 

 

His skull is shaped in such a way that he has a perpetual smile. It seems particularly gleeful at the moment, the words emerging without his jaw moving. You turn to face him more fully, gaping, because if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’d just made a joke. Surely, you think, incredulous, surely monsters shaped like the actual grim reaper aren’t allowed to tell jokes? Isn’t there a law somewhere? A law of nature? 

 

But there is an audible snort from someone else in the room--it’s not just you who noticed.

 

The other students have started to whisper amongst each other--some quieter than others--by the time Professor Mahoney shakes her head, blinking quickly in succession. “No, I’m so sorry, no, I’m fine. I just...that is. I’d heard about the student placements but I...I didn’t realize--” She stumbles over her words, nervously fluttering her hands. “I’m terribly sorry, this must be so rude! Excuse me, I was--the syllabus, yes. As I was saying, my policy on making up exams…”

 

The droning resumes, with quite a few more curious eyes directed towards your small table. Professor Mahoney seems to be making a dedicated effort not to keep looking over and staring, and you find no small amount of amusement in watching her strain. You feel almost better about the night before, to know that it wasn’t just you having a poor reaction to the whole monsters thing.

 

Beside you, the monster turns his head slightly in your direction, the orb flickering in your direction. You look back, offering a half hearted little wave of recognition, but not wanting to talk with so much attention already being directed your way. And it is, you realize suddenly,  _ your _ way--not just his. Some of the quiet conversations going on in the background do seem to involve staring as much at you as they do at the monster next to you.

 

You’re not super surprised--you’ve gotten a lot of weird looks over your years, given your unusual appearance. You just didn’t expect it to matter, compared to the living skeleton monster sitting next to you. In retrospect, you consider, sitting next to an actual monster might be making it worse--were they wondering if you were a monster, too?

 

You glance down at your arms. They’re thin and delicate, like the rest of you. Also like the rest of you, they are pale as snow--from your skin to your eyes to the sleek curls you currently have bound in a simple bun at the base of your neck. In a mirror, you’ve often thought that you look unfinished--like a lineart on a page that an artist meant to come back and color, but just never got around to it. There’s no real explanation for why, not that you’ve found--your parents and history are a mystery, so you’re not sure if it’s a genetic thing, or if maybe you were the victim of some strange childhood disease or trauma. Some of your paperwork marks you as albino, but the doctors say you don’t really qualify--you lack the sensitivities, the genetic markers, the ocular problems.  

 

In high school, you’d taken a lot of shit for it. In fairness, though, everyone took a lot of shit for everything in high school. It wasn’t exactly a good place to be different. 

 

You narrow your eyes at some of the people staring. A few glance away, awkwardly or with faint blushes at being caught. A few others don’t seem to care and stare back, blatantly and in some cases, challengingly. One boy stands out--dark haired and lanky, he leans back in his chair and peers at the pair of you with narrowed eyes and a tight frown. You frown back at him, but he doesn’t respond--and any further action is interrupted by the majority of the class starting to stand up. 

 

You jerk back in your seat, looking around as people start to stand and collect their things. The clock on the wall reads barely fifteen minutes into the hour long period--surely the professor isn’t ending class already?

 

“she wants people to partner up for the labs,” Says the monster sitting next to you, voice lazily amused. You flush a little at being so obvious in your lack of attention. You glance around, and sure enough, most of the people getting up were sitting alone, or are moving away from whoever they sat near. You scan the faces for a moment, but you aren’t surprised that you don’t recognize anyone--most people get their basic science requirements out of the way early, you’re the only idiot senior who put it off this long.

 

“tibia honest,” the monster says, catching your attention again. “i don’t really feel like testing my luck to figure out this partner thing. also don’t really want to get up. wanna partner up and save ourselves the effort?”

 

He’s leaning against one arm, which you can see now is very clearly arm and hand bones, as expected. There’s a faint blue tint to them, and to the spaces between and around them, that you can just barely see--sort of the color of his eye, you realize. You glance around again, quickly, before shrugging. “Uh, yeah. Sounds fine. Just, uh, fair warning that this whole science thing isn’t my strong suit,” You respond, rubbing the back of your neck. 

 

Your gaze flickers to his hand again, curious. He seems to notice because you hear a slight snort and he’s holding his other hand out to you, palm down like a noble woman offering her hand to be kissed. You flick your gaze back up to his face, feeling your cheeks warm a little at being caught. “S-sorry,” You say, feeling a bit like you’d been caught looking down a woman’s shirt.

 

He lets out a snickering noise. “nah, s’all cool. nothing wrong with curiosity. ask me when we’re not in class and i’ll even let you touch them,” He says, wiggling his fingers before pulling his arm back. “name’s sans, by the way. you know, like  _ sans the flesh _ .”

 

You stare at him.

 

“Are you punning at me?” You ask after a moment, mouth agape. “Are you allowed to do that?”

 

His face moves then, to your surprise, like it’s made of clay or flesh instead of bone. His eye socket shifts and it takes you a moment to realize it looks like a human would, if they’d raised an eyebrow. You seriously consider his offer to let you touch later, and immediately make yourself stop thinking about it.

 

He’s staring at you, this time. It’s expectant. You stare back, blankly. Finally, he takes pity on you. “am i allowed to know your name, too, or are you afraid i’ll cast a spell with it?” He asks. There’s resignation in his voice, something that makes you realize he’s not actually kidding. 

 

(it tastes like cocoa, without the sweetener, the darkest baking chocolate that’s so bitter it makes you gag)

 

“It’s…” You pause, trailing off. It feels like you should give him your real name, just to prove to him that you don’t think he’s going to bespell you with it. Admittedly, you’re not actually sure if he can, given that you’d heard they have magic...and, well, he’s a walking, talking skeleton, so you’re not sure what’s out of the realm of possibility anymore. Still, your real name isn’t exactly information you have access to, is it? 

 

“They call me Jane,” You finally say, biting the inside of your cheek.

 

“they call you? who are they, and why are they calling you that instead of,” he waves his hand, “whatever else?”

 

The room is starting to settle down, and the professor passes by, slides you a form to fill out. She gives the two of you a curious glance, but seems intent on remaining professional, and so immediately moves on to pass out the rest of the papers. You glance at it and find a pretty simple information form to note who the partners are, for grading purposes. 

 

“It’s a long story,” You say, somewhat absently, as you start to fill out the form. “But it’s what the government calls girls they can’t identify, and I fell into that category. So Jane Doe it is.”

 

You shrug and, upon filling out the last of your information, pass him the form to fill out his half. He seems like he wants to ask more questions, but finally gives a shake of his head. You notice that when he picks up a pencil to fill out the form, he doesn’t grasp it with the actual bones of his fingers. Where it would have touched his bones, there’s a thin ripple of glowing blue, sort of like when you drop something in water. It’s a centimeter above the bone itself, and below it there’s only empty space. It’s fascinating to watch the way the ripples shift as he writes.

 

“If you could all pass those forms to the front, I’ll make sure to have them in the system this afternoon,” The Professor calls from the front of the room, stealing your attention away. You turn to face her. “Now, we’ve got about half of the period left, and you’re all paying a lot of money to be here, so instead of ending class early, let’s head into the lab. We can go over basic lab safety and I’ve got a quick and dirty experiment we can get started on…”

 

* * *

 

Your class ends as you’re cleaning up from the experiment and putting away the box of borax you’d been measuring from. Sitting at a stool next to you, Sans is spreading his fingers and letting a pale white snotty looking puddy droop between them onto the table. “this stuff is kind of fun,” he comments, pulling it back together. 

 

“We probably should have used the food coloring,” You say, peering at the mess in his hands. Around you, a few other pairs are splitting, tossing, or bagging their own substance to play with or throw away. Most of them are blue, green, or pink. Few people had elected to stick with the natural white. Looking at the shiny goop in his hands, there’s a part of you that knows why.

 

“nah. it’s good enough like this,” He says cheerfully, standing up. “sure you don’t want it?”

 

You shake your head. “I don’t know what I’d do with it. If you like it, it’s all yours, man.”

 

His smile seems to stretches. “neat. i think papyrus would like this.”

 

He walks towards the door and you follow a few steps behind, shoving your notebook into your shoulder bag. “Papyrus?” You ask, looking down into your bag to make sure you latch it correctly. 

“yeah. my brother--he was at the bar with us last night,” Sans replies, still peering down at the puddy that he stretches between his fingers. You think back to the other skeleton, the one in the bright skirt. 

 

“Brother, huh? I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe you can introduce me, sometime,” You say as the two of you walk up the basement stairs. “Who were the other two with you? Your friends?”

 

Sans nods, pulling the storage baggie from his hoodie pocket with a clean hand. He starts to scoop the puddy inside. “yeah, friends from home, alphys and undyne.” He tucks the baggie into his pocket and stares at his hand for a moment before wiping it against the front of his jacket. 

 

You walk outside, where the air instantly starts to warm the chilly skin of your arms and legs. You stretch, letting out a contented hum. You turn left at the split, towards your next class, and pause. “I’ll see you later? We should work on the lab write up soon, get it out of the way before other classes start to stack up,” You say, pulling out your phone to check your schedule. “Can I have your phone number? It’ll be easier to meet up that way.”

 

“not even going to buy me dinner, first?” Sans asks, and when you look at him, wiggles his eyebrows at you. Or, at least, you’re pretty sure that’s what the motion is. You stare at him for a moment, before a snicker escapes you against your will. 

 

“You have a pooint,” You say, drawing out the last word and rolling your eyes playfully. “How about lunch? I’ve got some extra guest passes into the caf, if you wanted to meet up and just work on it at the table. I’ll bring my laptop?”

 

He reaches for your phone and you allow it. After a moment he hands it back. “added my info, and sent myself a text. they gave us a lunch plan, so no need to pay for me, but working at lunch sounds fine. i’ll introduce you to the others, so they don’t just think of you as the girl who attacked grillby on accident.”

 

You nod, sheepishly. “I really am sorry about that,” You say, covering your face with your hands. You peer out between the fingers. Sans just laughs, turning away and walking into the crowd. It’s the strangest thing, though, because you lose track of him almost immediately, and you’d think a monster in a bright blue hoodie would be a lot easier to find. You shake your head, tuck your phone away, and head to your next class.


	4. Chapter Three - Lunch [7 months, 1 week, 6 days before the Event]

Cost Accounting, as a class, is exactly as boring and tedious as you’d expected it would be. On the bright side, the professor is a pretty cool woman in her thirties who treats you all like normal people and is pretty good at explaining the early concepts in pretty simple terms. It’s probably one of your better classes, you think to yourself as you emerge from the accounting hall a few minutes after noon. 

 

It’s gotten hotter, more humid, and a part of you deeply regrets picking a university on the east coast as you stomp down the hill towards the dining hall, pulling your phone from your pocket. There are a few notifications waiting for you. You flick through them, feet moving on the path to food you’ve taken hundreds of times without your conscious direction. Junk email, junk email, a spam email, the campus theater’s welcome back message with show listings, the post-lab worksheet Professor Mahoney had promised to send out, junk email… 

 

Oh, and a text message from...You blink. “Lazybones”?

 

You consider the name for a moment, before shrugging and opening the message.

 

Lazybones:  ***if you still want to meet everyone, we’re in the back right. we’re hard to miss.**

 

You can’t disagree. 

 

***OMW**

 

You flip through your email, deleting the junk mail and marking the important ones for later. You barely look up as you enter the caf itself, a few minutes later, and swype your ID card to get in. At noon, on a M/W/F day, the caf is as bustling and crowded as you expected. You don’t bother grabbing a plate yet in the buffet style lunch lines, knowing that the bulk of your bag would just slow you down and risk knocking someone over if you turned wrong. 

 

Finding the monsters is as easy as you’d expected, too--the caf actually gets quieter and a bit sparsely seated, as you walk back to the corner round table you spy Sans sitting at. Glancing around, you note with some mild concern that most of the nearby students seem to be unabashedly watching the monsters at their table, and not all of them with innocent curiosity. There are notes of acidic vinegar fear on the air, blended with the bitter burn of vodka distrust. As you approach the table, there’s a certain hush that falls over the area. In the quiet, you hear a clear voice ring out, not bothering to whisper, “ _ I knew it!” _

 

You turn to find the speaker, but nobody meets your eye. You hunch your shoulders, clench your fists, and walk to the table that invited you.

 

“Um….hi?” You say, a bit sheepishly, as you near the table. The table itself sits eight, more of an octogon than a circle, and there are already four people sitting down with plates in front of them in various stages of full. You recognize Papyrus from the night before, today decked out in orange basketball shorts and a white homemade croptop with “COOL DUDE” sharpied on it, and the yellow lizard monster too, though you aren’t sure about her name. The other monster from the bar, the blue reptile, isn’t at the table--you wonder if she’s up getting her plate. In addition, Sans is seated next to Papyrus and gives you a lazy wave, and a bear monster (who mostly just looks like a beat in a vest) is sitting one empty seat away from Papyrus peering into a thick textbook. 

 

“this is jane,” Sans says, gesturing to you and pulling out the empty seat next to him. “she’s my chemistry partner. she might be joining us for lunch periodically.”

 

You pause in setting your bag under the seat and glance at him, eyes narrowed. You think maybe it’s a coincidence, but--

 

“SANS STOP THAT AT ONCE!” Papyrus says, giving him an expression of deep offense and upset. Sans’ smile seems to stretch as he looks at his brother. “YOU’RE GOING TO SCARE HER AWAY. AND YOU’LL DESERVE IT!”

 

You can’t hold back the rather unladylike snort, and immediately cover your mouth, flushing. San’s grin grows even wider, expression brightening as he looks from you to his brother. Papyrus stares at you looking horrified and betrayed.

 

“I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN!” He laments, pressing a hand to his chest dramatically. “YOU’VE ALREADY BEEN RUINED. THEY SHOULD NEVER HAVE LET HIM NEAR YOU.”

 

You giggle into your hand, sliding your bag under your seat with your foot. You glance around at the rest of the table and find yourself a bit hesitant. The lizard woman looks up from her plate of pasta and blinks almost owlishly at you. 

 

“O-oh, right! I’m Dr. Alphys. Um...or I guess I’m not a doctor here, yet?” She tilts her head, the eyebrow ridges of her face lowering into concern. “B-but I was back home, so…”

 

You flash her a curious smile. “A doctor? That’s really cool. Are they not letting your degree transfer?”

 

She shakes her head. “I-it’s not q-quite that. Um, well, monsters and h-humans are pretty different, s-so…” She shrugs. “Asgore a-and Toriel are working on, um, how things will t-transfer, too. Politics a-are confusing.”

 

“Not really,” A voice from your left speaks up. You glance at the bear monster, who peers up from his textbook. On the page, the text is thick and black on white on one page, with a full diagram on the other of something to do with flags. You recognize a few of them for being country flags.

 

“The humans have studied politics very extensively,” The bear says, giving Alphys an expression filled with glee. “They’re very fascinating, and rather easy to understand, when they’re analyzed.”

 

He seems to realize something, jerking his head towards you. He offers you a large paw tipped in deadly looking claws. You hesitate for only a second before taking it and shaking it gingerly. “I am Armel. It’s nice to meet you, Jane,” He says primly, glancing back down at his book and flipping the page. 

 

Alphys, meanwhile, gives a faint little shrug and looks back at her bowl.

 

“armel wants to be the first monster mayor on the surface,” Sans says to your right, watching the bear monster. He smells like frosting--fondness, you know from experience. You nod at him in response, idly wondering how that would work. 

 

“YOU SHOULD GO GET YOUR FOOD BEFORE IT STOPS BEING FRESH!” Papyrus says before putting a large forkful of cheesey pasta between his teeth. You’re somewhat surprised to see that when he pulls the fork back, the morsel has vanished, yet there doesn’t seem to be a mess anywhere from the hole under his chin. Magic, you think in wonder. “THAT IS WHEN IT IS BEST!”

 

When you turn to look at the lines, though, they’re still painfully long. You shake your head. “No, that’s alright. They’ll put out fresh stuff pretty frequently for the next hour, since there’s so many people. I’ll wait until the lines go down. The write up is pretty small for this one, so I can probably just type it up by the time the lines are bearable again.”

 

You laugh and kneel down to pull your laptop from your bag. As you set it up, you turn to Sans and start off, “So I was thinking we could…”

 

* * *

 

It takes less than half an hour for the two of you to finish up the report. You save it and email a copy to his university email. “I’ll print it out before class on Friday,” You say as you stowe the laptop back in your bag. Across the table, Alphys has finished her pasta and appears to be reading a book. 

 

Actually, you realizing, not just a book--it appears to be a comic book. You recognize the colors on the sleeve and tilt your head to read the title, to be sure. “Hey!” You say cheerfully. Alphys glances up at the call, then starts slightly as she realizes you’re talking to her. She blinks at you, reaching to adjust her glasses. “I used to love that series when I was a kid!”

 

Her expression brightens as she looks between you and the fifth volume of the Inuyasha manga. “R-really?” She asks, voice gaining a sudden measure of confidence you hadn’t noticed was missing until it appears. “You like Inuyasha?”

 

You nod emphatically. “I used to! They used to play it at night on this one TV station--I’d set an alarm to make sure I’d wake up in the middle of the night to catch it,” You say with a small laugh. “I used to really like Inuyasha’s brother--that super pale dude with the fluff--”

 

“Sesshomaru!” She finishes for you, nodding. “He’s so m-mean, though! Why did you like him?”

 

You pause for a moment, rubbing the back of your neck nervously, before pulling a loose lock of your hair forward. “Well, I guess...he looked like me. I mean, it’s all kinds of silly, but I used to be super self conscious about...about you know, all of this.”

 

You gesture with both hands fluttering around your chest level, indicating all of you. “Having a character who looked like me was kind of cool, even if he had the weird markings and was a bad demon guy.” You shrug, but Alphys is giving you a considering look. She nods, finally, in understanding.

 

The two of you delve into a discussion about the manga and the anime, which she is horrified to learn that you never actually finished. This leads to a ten minute conversation about how you  _ have _ to come to their anime nights, because how can you just leave a show unfinished??? By the time you’re getting up to go get a tray at the end of the hour block, you find yourself agreeing to a weekly anime meetup that sounds, from what she tells you, a bit like more of a weekly monster reunion than anything else. 

 

You’re a little apprehensive, but in the face of that much excitement, but can’t make yourself say no. And she’s right that you are pretty curious how the show ended, even if you never bothered to watch it after it started getting all fillery. You figure you can bring your homework and laptop in case it gets too boring or awkward.

 

Overall, lunch would have been surprisingly normal despite your unusual companions, if it weren’t for your lunch choices. Usually, you just grabbed a quick sandwich and some fries or salad at lunch. You find, though, that the sandwich bar is largely picked over and in the middle of being refilled when you step up--so you grab from the grilled bar instead, which seems a little fresher, and walk back with a plate of sausages and fries.

 

It’s only when you’re taking your first bite, and looking up to vaguely green faces that seem to be making a point not to look at you as you chew your sausage, that you realize none of their plates had contained anything meat related. It had been all pastas, vegis, and even in the case of Arnel, who you might have expected the meat from, an egg dish. Actually, you weren’t even sure Sans had eaten anything at all--there was an empty bottle of ketchup near him, but you can’t recall seeing him having put it on anything.

 

Your chewing slows as you consider. You swallow.

 

“Are...are you all vegetarians?” You ask after a moment, voice somewhat sheepish. “I am so sorry. I didn’t realize…” 

 

You trail off and glance down at your lunch, full of glistening grilled meat. Beside you, Papyrus nods his head. Of all of them, you’re surprised that the tall skeleton seems the least bothered, only slightly green as he avoids looking at your plate. 

 

“I HAVE BEEN TAUGHT THAT FLESH IS A COMMON FOOD ITEM FOR HUMANS!” He says, meeting your eyes. “AND THAT I WILL BE TAUGHT HOW TO PREPARE IT. HOWEVER, I WILL ADMIT THAT I AM UNCOMFORTABLE AT THE IDEA OF CONSUMING FLESH MYSELF.”

 

“that doesn’t mean you have to eat like we do,” Sans says from beside you. “we’ll get used to it. it’s pretty common up here, so…”

 

You shake your head. “Yeah, but...still, I’ll just…”

 

You set your fork and knife down on the plate and start to stand up. You’re grabbing your plate to take it to the front, or maybe just to a different table, when Sans reaches out to stop you. You aren’t expecting it, so you don’t jerk away fast enough and his finger bones wrap around your wrist, touching your skin directly even as you wince at the immediate contact.

 

Around you, the world blooms into life. The colors grow richer, brighter, making what you were seeing before this moment seem grey and lifeless in comparison. You feel like you were blind and deaf, and suddenly you can see intricate details of the stitching on someone else’s shirt half the room away, hear the individual words of half a dozen conversations that had before been blurring into the roar of the caf. Your eyelids flutter and you’re pulling your arm away, dropping the plate with a clatter onto the table, as it hits you

 

Apathy has its own taste, a dusty stale taste like breathing in the air in an old locked up attic on a summer afternoon. Curiosity is sweet lemon and concern is sour apple and underneath those sharper emotions like cake under a layer of frosting is a drowning whirlpool of dusty apathy and cocoa resignation and something you have no name for but that pulses against your skin and satisfies a craving you’ve never been able to meet before. 

 

You jerk your hand away, wide eyed, press it to your chest. You try to keep your breathing even and your gaze steady as you wait for the colors to dim back to the grey you’re used to, for your senses to dull, for the never ending craving to come back. This isn’t your first, after all.

 

Sans is watching you with a dimmed glow in the dark pools of his eyes, frozen with his hand outstretched where he’d grabbed you. He lowers his hand very slowly. Your gaze flickers, but the others don’t seem to have realized anything unusual has happened, outside of your dropped plate.

 

You collect the dish, thankfully it hadn’t been high enough when you’d dropped it for anything to have broken or splattered. You sling your back over your shoulder and don’t meet anyone’s eyes.

 

“T-thank you for having me at your table,” You say, trying to keep your nerves from your voice. “I, um, I have another class to get to, though, and, you know, I’m sorry about, uh, the meat thing so--” 

 

You turn, and you aren’t afraid to admit to yourself that you’re running away. You drop the mostly full plate at the dish pit. Outside, the colors are still bright and everything is still loud and clear and you aren’t hungry anymore. You try very, very hard not to think of why.


	5. Chapter Four - Therapy [7 months, 1 week, 5 days before the Event]

The first time it happened, you were in the back of Patrick Keegan’s mother’s old convertible with the top up and the radio was blaring the soundtrack to a drive in movie. The license in your pocket had said that you were sixteen.

 

(It also said your hair was blonde and your eyes were gray and those weren’t true either.)

 

You don’t really remember much leading up to it. You remember that it had been your first date, and Patrick had been a relatively normal, boring high school boy at your relatively normal, boring small town high school. He’d been the first one to ever take an interest in you, instead of teasing you for your strange coloration. He’d been kind.

 

The movie playing had been Men in Black. You know this because you can remember the soundtrack playing over the radio system in explicit detail, like you can remember everything else starting from the moment Patrick’s hand had slid under your shirt and traced the bare skin of your back. The sound system had crackled under the strain of the gunshot in a scene on a practice range early in the movie. A red haired woman had walked by the car and peered in, giving you a dirty look, and she’d worn dark rimmed glasses and been carrying a small paper basket with exactly five chicken wings in a red sauce. Patrick’s fingers had been ice cold on the sensitive skin of your side and his lips had been dry and he’d tasted like salt and butter from the popcorn that had sat forgotten in the front seat. 

 

Your world had exploded into sudden cold clarity. The movie had gotten loud, louder, until you were hearing it from dozens of different speakers and more than that besides--a woman in a nearby car was gasping and there was a man somewhere asking for no ice, please, and just a splash of regular and someone was angrily hissing that she’d said  _ no goddamn it you take me home right now Jon or I’ll-- _

 

It only lasted until Patrick had pulled back, looking queasy, and your world had faded until you’d felt like a blind, deaf thing. He’d made excuses, told you not to eat the popcorn because he suddenly felt so sick that he thought maybe the butter had gone off. He hadn’t wanted to leave, because you’d paid for the tickets and he’d been stubborn, so you’d finished the movie while he’d fallen asleep in the seat next to you. 

 

You don’t remember most of that movie, outside of the one scene you remember almost too well, because you spent most of the time he dozed feeling jittery and self conscious and more than a little upset. You didn’t go on another date with Patrick Keegan.

 

There were other times, too. There was a concert where the press of bodies had been so close you couldn’t move without touching someone else in the crowd, where the air had tasted like excitement and your foster sibling had ended up having to half carry you out, convinced you’d had something slipped into your drink. You hadn’t eaten for a week because the idea of food had seemed like too much, and your foster mother had eventually felt the need to sit down with you and make sure your weren’t developing an eating disorder. At a slumber party, once, a girl had tried to play with your hair and the feel of her fingers against the back of your neck is branded in your mind, just like the way she’d complained, after, that the color and texture of your hair made it too hard to deal with and besides, she was  _ tired _ .

 

In your room, you swallow two blue pills from an orange bottle that says  _ take two as needed. _

(That isn’t at all how anti-psychotics are supposed to work. You think they're probably sugar, a placebo. You swallow them anyway.)

* * *

 

You have a third class on Wednesdays, later in the afternoon. You attend, so jittery that you can’t stop your foot from bouncing. The syllabus is seared into your head, which is frankly a huge waste of space. You don’t talk to anyone more than you have to, you don’t touch anyone at all, and within fifteen minutes of that class ending, you’re back in your dorm.

 

By Thursday morning, the world has gone back to it’s faded colors. There’s a dark part of you that you feel a little bit like you’re shoving into a small box to hide it, the part of you that immediately notices the difference and misses it dearly. But the majority of you is just relieved that you’re not seeing things--you’re a senior, you’re so close to the end of this that you can taste it, and having a mental breakdown would fuck up your graduation plans.

 

Thursdays are a classless day for you. You’d intended to use them for working, homework and bar shifts, and you’d been lucky enough to snag one of the night shifts at The Nest. Well, lucky might not actually be the right word, you consider--the way classes work out, Thursdays tend to be bizarrely busy, and you’re sure that you’ll be run ragged. But on the other hand, busy shifts go faster and don’t give you as much time to think about things and stress out, so you think you prefer them.

 

In the morning you finish up some early assignments from your accounting courses from the day before. Mostly, they’re simple worksheets meant to test you on what you remember. It doesn’t take you long. In the afternoon, you walk downtown in your dark blue Nest tee-shirt and stop in only shortly to drop off your bag in the employee closet. You emerge back out into the muggy summer afternoon and head further into town.

 

Your therapist is a white man in his late fifties or so, with salt and pepper hair and a noticeable love for sweater vests. Today he is wearing a grey one, with a green and white argyle design. The office you meet him in is well air conditioned, enough so as to be chilly on the bare skin of your arms and lower legs, and decorated in shades of beige and white and pale blue. The couch you sit on, across from him, is pleather and your sweat slicked skin sticks to it when you shift, trying to get comfortable at the start of your appointment.

 

“Jane! It’s good to see you back,” He starts off, voice cheerful. “How was the internship?”

 

“...profitable?” You say, more as a question than an answer. “Hours were long, and it wasn’t super exciting, but it was good work, I guess. They gave me a job offer, for after I graduate.”

 

“Really? How exciting! Do plan on taking it?” He asks, writing something down with a shiny metal pen. 

 

“I think so. I guess I’m still deciding, but I don’t think I have any better options.” You shrug, looking out the window. Outside, the only thing you can actually see is the small grocery store across the street and a sliver of sky above it. The blue is cut with dark clouds, spotty still but probably pointing to rain later. You try to remember if you’d closed the window in your dorm room.

 

After you get through the pleasantries, you’re quiet for a few moments. He doesn’t push you, just peers at you over the rims of his silver spectacles. 

 

“I had to take the pills yesterday,” You finally admit, looking up at the ceiling like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. You hear the scratching of pen on paper.

 

“That’s okay--that’s what you have them for. What happened?”

 

“I met a monster. Well, a few of them, I guess. I don’t know. I’d been talking to a few of them for a few hours, and didn’t have anything weird happen, but…” You shrug, fidget with your hands fisted in the hem of your shirt. “It was the colors, again. Lasted all night.”

 

He hums. “It’s been awhile since you’ve had that one,” He says after a few calm seconds. “Were you feeling upset, before it happened? Anything bothering you, or stressing you out?”

 

You think, but eventually shake your head. “I guess I was a little nervous before, but when the episode started, I’d calmed down a lot. It was this lunch with a few of the monsters--we’d been talking for a while, so…”

 

“Several monsters, you say?” He lifts his gaze from the paper. “What were you talking about when the episode began?”

 

“Oh, uh...I think...I think it was food?” You think back. “Oh--they’re vegetarian. I’m not sure if just them or if that’s a monster thing, but I think it’s probably a monster thing. I was apologizing for my lunch, since I’d gotten sausages or something.”

 

His gaze doesn’t flicker from yours and his brows furrow in thought. “That...sounds like it may have caused a bit of anxiety? Worry about offending your new...friends?” He pauses for a moment, his gaze flickering behind you to the shelf of books. He continues after marking something on the paper, “I think I have something that we might want to try, but let me look into it at the end of your session. In the meantime, why don’t you tell me how your first day of classes went…”

* * *

  
  


Mr. Jacob’s office is on the second floor, and to reach it, you have to enter a small little recess with stairs that opens up to the street, right beside the door to a small Christian Science Book Store that you’ve never seen much of a reason to visit. When you exit after your session, holding a small bottle of pills he’d called ‘samples’ that he wanted to try you on, you’re stepping out of the recess and onto the sidewalk and not paying very much attention. The result of this is that you don’t notice the shadow of the figure who turns into the recess at the same time, and the two of you collide heavily. 

 

Both of you stumble back, and you let out a small squeak as your feet hit the step behind you and you fall back onto the stairs. They dig painfully into your back, and your ankle, already a little twingy from the night at the bar, screams at you. You rub your elbow where you bashed it against the stone and wince, looking to see what you hit.

 

A boy sits on the ground, long legs encased in denim ripped at the hems and bright blonde hair askew and falling into his face where it desperately needs a cut. He’s wearing a dark tank top in the heat, arms tanned and roped with muscle you know is from his martial arts training, because you’ve gone to his exhibitions before. He blinks at you owlishly behind rectangular black glasses, before recognition sets in and he grins.

 

“Falling for me again, Jane?” He asks with a wink. He shifts, rising to his feet, and takes a moment to brush dust from his back. Then, peering at you with a growing smirk, he holds one hand out towards you in halting sign, the other pressing dramatically to his chest. “I know, I know, it’s so hard not to! But you must desist, darling! You are stronger than your hormones!”

 

You can’t hold back the snort, and your lips quirk into an almost involuntary smile. Matt Jacobs has always been able to get you to smile. It’s why he’s been your best friend for the past three years, since you’d moved out to the small east coast mountain town to attend the university. He’d found you wandering aimlessly at one of the club fairs and pulled you into a club he’d been apart of, basically forcing them to adopt you. It was how you’d made most of your friends on campus, so you sometimes felt like you owed him quite a bit.

 

“Well golly gosh,” You say, playing along and pressing your own hand to your chest. “I just couldn’t help myself, Master Jacobs! You know how those baby blues of yours just ruffle a woman’s hormones. I simply must have you!”

 

“Alas,” He presses the hand previously held out to you to his lips, looking down. “I am but sworn to another.”

 

He pauses, and when he continues, it’s wryly and having dropped the dramatic tone, “And frankly, you’re missing a pretty important part for this romance to have worked anyway.”

 

You snort again. While you weren’t afraid to admit to yourself that Matt was probably what your type would be, if you ever bothered to do the dating thing, all dorky jokes and enthusiasm and willingness to try new things or just sit in playing games all day, any flame you might have held for him in the beginning had been thoroughly doused when he’d made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that he was very exclusively into cute boys who wear eyeliner.

 

“Visiting your dad?” You ask.

 

“Bringing him dinner,” Matt says, holding up his empty hands and pausing. He glances down, grabs a plastic bag you hadn’t noticed, and opens it to glance inside. The wrapped sandwich still looks like it’s the right shape, only a little smooshed on one side, and the coke can isn’t leaking. Matt seems unconcerned. “He forgot it on the counter this morning, but he’s only got a ten minute break between sessions tonight. Some new client finally took the slot he was using to take as a dinner break, I guess. I was surprised he was willing to give that up, but I guess it’s someone important enough that he couldn’t resist.”

 

Matt rolls his eyes, and you shuffle out of the recess with the stairs to let him pass by. “I’ll see you at the club fair, right?”

 

He nods. “If you want to show up tomorrow at 3pm, we’re going to set up early and display a bunch of the board games, the nerf guns, that sort of thing. Stacy said she’s going to pick up those tiny cupcakes to give out, so if you help out, you get first pick!” He grins wide. The club, Choice, was the big substance free club on campus. It got a lot of funding from the school to run events every weekend, and Matt had been elected the president at the end of the last school year. You knew exactly how much funding was involved, because you’d been elected the treasurer on a whim after the group had found out you were an accounting major.

 

You nod, agree to be there on time, and make a mental note to head right over after your last Friday class. In the meantime, as Matt heads up to talk to his dad, you head back down the main street to get to work. Madeline had mentioned that Grillby was going to be showing off some monster drinks, and you were admittedly pretty curious. You take the fast way back, pausing only once to admire a particularly impressive monster duo that walk by, all white fur and royal purple robes and a small brown haired child walking between them. It’s a curious sight, and you can’t help but think that they look kind of familiar, as a group. 


End file.
